


sweetest addiction

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Creepy Uncle Peter Hale, Drug Addiction, Dubious Consent, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Manipulative Peter, Oral Sex, POV Peter Hale, POV Second Person, Pain, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Werewolf Pain-Relief Magic, pre-Sterek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 12:53:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13788171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: “One day,” you muse, tracing a claw over the marks that rake over his ribs while he winces and squirms, not sure if he wants to come closer or pull away. “One day, this will go too far and we will lose you.”He tilts a smile up at you and drags you into a kiss. “Not today,” he promises.





	sweetest addiction

**Author's Note:**

> Full warning at end but y'all should know this is kinda dark

He's hurt again.

You smell it on him, the copper bright penny of blood, the thick blade of pain, that cuts across the room and pulls an almost Pavlovian response from you.

Your mouth twitches in a smirk at that.

And there is the other smell, the familiar bitter sour lemon scent of worry and guilt, the spicy green scent of _want._

Ahh, pining.

Derek is as hopeless now as he was when Paige stumbled across his path a lifetime ago.

He destroyed her, broke her open and left her lifeless and sometimes you see the fear of that in Derek's eyes, when he looks at Stiles.

You think Stiles will help him, throw himself head first and heedless into danger.

It itches, under your skin, the need to make him stronger better more.

“I'll take Stiles home,” you say. “The sheriff will worry.”

~*~

You stop, halfway to his house, on a side street that practice has shown gets almost no traffic. He’s moving slow, but his eyes are eager and he whines when you first touch him, hard and bruising. You smile and lick the noise from his lips, and then bite his lip just to hear his yelp, high and pained.

And then--

“Please,” he whispers, his eyes wide and and hands shaking. “Peter, _please_ , need it, please!”

He begs so pretty, and it makes you want to stretch this out, make him beg for hours. You don’t. You press your hand to his side, and he groans, almost orgasmic, when his pain floods your veins, painting them black as he goes boneless in your lap.

“There, sweetheart,” you murmur. “There you go.”

He whimpers and arches, rubbing against you lazily as you take it all, the pain and ache, the twinge in his knee, all of the damage done to his fragile human body that he offers up so freely--you take it all.

And then, when he’s whining in bliss, eyes closed and a loopy smile on his lips--

You take more.

~*~  

He's human, and fragile.

There were humans in Talia’s pack. Derek’s oldest brother was human. A third cousin was human. A few people Talia had deemed trustworthy and _pack_ were human.

And it was different then--you remember the languorous peace. The way the world had felt full and good and yours, for the taking, under your sister’s red gaze.

There was less chance, for the humans to be hurt, in that endless peace.

But even so--

You are the one who notices.

Stiles is human and fragile and reckless--and he is hurt far more than any human should be.

You are the one who realizes--that is by _choice_.

~*~

Stiles is almost limp when you press into him, but he scrambles for you, holding tight, tight, as you fuck him.

It’s always like this. The dazed eyes, hazy and pleased and strung out on pain drain, coming to brilliant life as you fuck him.

“He would hate you, for this,” you murmur. “For hurting yourself, like this.”

He whines, and ducks into you and you huff a laugh, rub a finger over the stretched rim of him, where you’re thrusting hard into him and he shivers, biting at your chest “He wants you, sweetheart. I hear him, sometimes, whispering your name as he fucks himself. He thinks I can’t, but I hear him.”

“Why,” Stiles gasps, and he spasms when you push a finger into him, stretching him. “Why won’t--”

“Because you’re fragile,” you snarl, and bite him. Stiles screams, high and reedy, “because you bleed for _him_ and he would never take more than that, never take _this.”_

You pinch him, cruel and hard, twist his nipple just to hear him yelp, to feel his thighs shakes as you fuck him and then--

You push your hand hard into his side, _rip_ his pain from him and he screams again, this beautiful soundless noise that makes you drag him down and lick it from his open mouth, feeding from it as you feed his addiction, as he comes across your chest and collapses against you, drunken and almost unconscious.

~*~

Derek hates it.

He always takes care of Stiles, but it’s with this expression on his face that you know.

That expression is why Stiles stopped letting Derek help him.

It’s guilt and grief, that ugly crunch of emotions you see in Derek’s eyes too often.

He feels guilty, every time he heals Stiles.

Every time the boy bleeds for the pack, every time you hold him up after a new big bad ugly gets their claws into his pale soft body.

You see it in Derek while he hovers, bleeding,  a few steps behind Stiles, see it in him when he lingers in the background, giving Stiles unasked for space, guilt driving him away.

You see it, and so does Stiles--it’s what drove the boy into your arms.

~*~

Stiles curls into your arms, after you’ve cleaned him of spunk and lube, and you let him doze for a time, until you nudge him aside, ignoring his plaintive whine of protest, and retrieve the first aid kit he keeps in his backseat. You hum soft and displeased while you clean his wounds.

“It’s dangerous, this game you’re playing, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answers, sleepily and you snort, blatantly disbelieving.

“One day,” you muse, tracing a claw over the marks that rake over his ribs while he winces and squirms, not sure if he wants to come closer or pull away. “One day, this will go too far and we will lose you.”

He tilts a smile up at you and drags you into a kiss. “Not today,” he promises.

~*~

Sometimes when he comes--when he’s drunk on pain drain, on the sharp sting of pain and the almost savage _pull_ of it, when he’s full of your cock and his mouth is stuffed with your fingers and you’re silent--he says _Derek,_ like a prayer, like a plea.

You aren’t what he wants, but you’ve always known that. You’ve always known he takes what you give and gives you his sweet ass in return.

Sometimes you even remember that.

~*~

“You need to Bite him.”

Derek glares at you. He’s perched on Stiles’ window, while you hold him.

It was a Redcap, and this time, there is no sex. There’s only an endless drain of pain he’s too out of it to even appreciate, and you are curled in his bed, with him limp in your arms, draining the pain in a slow crawl of black up your arms, breathing through the dizzy waves of pain while Stiles whines.

“He doesn't want that.”

You stare at him, and say it, what you’ve known since the first time you realized Stiles was addicted to pain drain.

“If you don’t, this will kill him.”

~*~

You know two things, two things that are incomparable truths about this boy you cannot shake from your skin.

He is unlike anything you’ve ever seen--he is brave and fearless and you think he could be the good thing Derek deserves, if only he could survive long enough.

And he will make a _magnificent_ wolf.

~*~

You think it should be strange, holding Stiles in your arms while Derek sits at his bedside.

Your nephew fairly reeks of want and sadness, and you know that Stiles smells of lust and love, when he’s near Derek and not drugged out of his mind.

You don’t have a place in this strange love story, you know that--but you’re the one in Stiles bed, you're the one who fucks him and feeds his addiction.

You’re the one who feeds his addiction and he has always been yours.

~*~

It takes two months to recover from the Redcap, and Derek watches, increasingly agitated, as Stiles sits in your lap, a smile on his lips as you drain his pain, his eyes on Derek as he leans into your lips on his throat, torn between what he loves and what he can’t give up.

~*~

“You think this is good, don’t you?” you murmur, holding him down by the nape of the neck as you fuck him slowly and he whines, arches into it, gaspes wetly when you drag pain from him in small slow sips.

“The heat and bliss of the drain--it’s good, isn’t it, sweetheart,” you croon and he sobs his assent, shudders around you, and you circle his cock, squeeze _hard,_ enough that he hisses in pain.

“You think this is good, but darling. Darling. Just imagine _healing_.”

You rip the pain from him as you jack him with the too tight grip and he screams as he comes.

~*~

He’ll ask. You see it, before he does, before Derek does. Before that brilliant banshee does.

Stiles was always going to ask for the Bite. You hold him close with that knowledge buried deep, and feed his addiction. Because he will ask. And Derek--Derek will give it to him.

Stiles will make a magnificent wolf, and he will make your nephew happier than he has been since before Paige, and you--

You will be forgotten.

Discarded along with an addiction that would kill him.

You knew that. You always knew that.

It hurts, in a way you expect and don’t and try to forget. Because you always knew this would happen.

~*~

You smile, when he blinks at you with beta gold eyes and a wide grin and you ignore the uneven pounding of your heart.

Stiles, after all, is not the only one with an unhealthy addiction.

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is addicted to pain drain. Peter is addicted to Stiles and feeds his addiction while fucking him.  
> In a strange way, he does want Stiles and Derek to be together.  
> No one is healthy.


End file.
